This is a very personal story for me. I came across a fiction piece written by my father, Clarence Stolt, back in the 1930's when he was a young man, and thought it would be a neat idea to do something I never had the chance to do when he was alive, in essence the two of us writing a story together.
HARLEY LARRIEU AND HIS TWILIGHT BAND
Written by Clarence Stolt and Kent Stolt
The year was 1936, in the middle of another relentless winter in west central Wisconsin. At two o’clock on a still Saturday afternoon the V-8 Ford cruiser pulled out of Spring Valley and took the only highway out of town due south. Harley Larrieu and His Twilight Band were headed to what they hoped would be the next stop on their way to destiny: Neillsville and its very own Silver Dome Ballroom, one of the newest, hippest dance spots in the state.
They were a young but solid seven-piece band with “Gentleman Johnny” Fischer on trumpet, Herman “Shorty” Brown on clarinet, Al Menke handling stand-up bass, Ben Barney playing trombone, Chick Hurst on drums, Arnie Jackson playing the concertina, and 23-year-old front man Harley Larrieu doing the honors with tenor sax and vocals. After two and a half years of cutting their teeth at high school dances and weddings in dead end towns like Durand, Bloomer and Marathon City, skill and experience seemed to be coming together at last for the Twilight Band.
Then the big break. Earlier that week a blizzard roared through much of the plains and upper Midwest, shutting down towns and highways from Sioux Falls to Saginaw. Al Tate and the Old Bohemians ended up snowbound somewhere in northern Minnesota. A Western Union telegram came in saying they would be unable to make their scheduled appearance at the Silver Dome on Saturday night. Naturally this led to a last minute scramble for a replacement until someone recalled a local band they had seen recently. Harley Larrieu gladly answered the call. Now as he and his band rolled down Highway 10 the weight of this ‘lucky break’ began to settle in.
Larrieu lit another cigarette and turned around. “All right, boys, when you see all those dolled up females at the Dome, you’ll be all eyes. But keep your mind on your work. Mind your p’s and q’s and play your asses off. And no funny business after the show. We still got to pack up tonight for that gig in Augusta tomorrow.”
It was a little early in the day, but calm musicians needed calm nerves, or so they figured, and the whiskey flask was already being passed around.
“Jesus, take it easy on that stuff, will ya,” Larrieu added. “This could be our big chance, guys. Last week Whoopie John played there. Week before it was The Six Fat Dutchman. And if we want to get back here again we gotta make a good impression tonight. Got it?”
“Got it,” they said.
“Johnny, how’s the throat?”
“Swell.”
“Good. Don’t get too cute in front of the mike tonight. And Chick, don’t get ahead of the beat. Keep it tight.”
“We’ll knock ‘em dead, boss,” Fischer said, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips.
“We better.”
It was a long, quiet ride the rest of the way.
“Damn, this is one ritzy joint,” Ben Barney said as the band first stepped inside and eyed the arched ceiling ballroom. At one end was the stage and at the other end a heavy white curtain emblazoned with the words “Silver Dome.” In between were banks of green booths and tables, a long bar and of course the dance floor, which alone covered more ground than a football field.
It took nearly an hour for the boys to set up and run through a couple of numbers just to tune up their instruments. Everything they’d heard about the Silver Dome was true. The acoustics in this place were the best.
The doors opened at eight and folks were there standing in line to get in. Despite the recent bad weather it had all the makings of a big night, with over five hundred tickets sold at the going rate of 35 cents apiece. Of course everyone had been looking forward to seeing Al Tate and the Old Bohemians, but nothing could be done about that now. By eight-fifty the place was buzzing. The floor lights came on and the freshly waxed dance floor glistened like a millpond at sunset. Standing together in the wings offstage the boys were all keyed up, tapping their feet, sweating, waiting like they’d never waited before. No one said a word.
Finally it was time. At nine o’clock sharp Harley Larrieu stepped into the brightest spotlight he’d ever seen. For a few seconds his mind went blank. Then just as quickly it all clicked.
“All right, ladies and gentlemen…if you please. Grab your partner, kick up your heels and away we’ll go. Swing it, boys.”
Outside, the temperature may have been hovering around ten degrees, but inside was another story as Chick Hurst tapped his sticks, leading the band into the pulsing rhythm of “White Heat.”
For thirty seconds nothing happened. Then all at once the couples in their finest suits and colorful dresses took to the floor, the foxtrot being the popular style of dance.
Next came a fast-paced instrumental medley of “Melody From the Sky,” “New Ulm Polka” and “Basin Street Blues.” The dancers applauded politely.
Gentleman Johnny took the microphone this time. “Ladies and gentlemen you are dancing and, we hope, listening to the music of the one and only Harley Larrieu and his Twilight Band, just returned from a successful swing out west. This is our first time playing at the Silver Dome and we’re mighty glad to be here. Now for our next number we’d like to slow things down a bit and play one of our favorites: “My Wonderful One.” Vocals will be sung by none other than our handsome leader, Mister Larrieu, who, by the way ladies, is not a married man. If interested please leave your name at the box office.”
Larrieu’s face blushed as a few strings of laughter trickled out from the audience. Tall and broad-shouldered, he did cut a striking figure in his white silk jacket, slicked back hair and dimpled smile. He put his sax down and stood at the microphone. The lights dimmed, followed by the first dreamy chords of “Shorty” Brown’s clarinet.
“When I saw you there…standing in the moonlight…”
When their first set came to an end the applause came back louder. During the break the Silver Dome’s manager, a jowly man named Archie Geistering, walked over to Harley, slapped him on the back, and leaned in with a grin.
“Not bad, young man. Not bad at all. Let’s you and I talk after the show. I know people who can use that kind of talent.”
Before Larrieu could think of what to say the manager was already moving on. Everything was playing out perfectly.
For the next two hours the band played their hearts out and the crowd whooped it up right along with them.
When it was all over and the ballroom had finally emptied, a happily spent Harley Larrieu walked back to collect their money and hopefully something more. Geistering was still smiling as he motioned him into a cluttered office that smelled of burned coffee and old cigars.
“You boys really pulled it out of the fire for us tonight. Ended up being a good night all around.”
“Yes, sir, that it was.”
“Drink?”
Tempting, but Larrieu declined. “I wanted to tell you that we really appreciate your giving us the chance to—”
“I was serious about what I said earlier. Just say the word and I can hook you up with a friend of mine, a talent agent in Milwaukee. He could get you in good with a real band. You know, the pros. Of course you’d have to pay your dues, probably start out as a third sax man, but after a while, who knows? With your looks and that voice of yours…jeepers.”
“Wait a minute, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the way you shined out there tonight.”
“Me?”
“Well yeah, what did you…? Geistering paused, then leaned back in his chair when he realized what was happening. “Look, kid, I’m going to lay it out for you. That band of yours, well, they’re not bad. But they’re nothing special, either. You, on the other hand, stole the show. Those people were paying customers and they were eating it up with you standing there like Gary Cooper, singing and blowing that sax. That kind of magic don’t happen every day, believe me.”
“No disrespect, sir, but we’re in this together. We’re a band. I can’t just walk out on these guys.”
“You’ve got what they’ll never have, son. Pizzazz. The kind of stuff that makes the ladies take notice. And that’s the secret to success in this business. You know it and I know it.”
Larrieu let out a hard sigh, but his eyes didn’t argue the point.
“I’m only throwing in my two cents,,” Geistering said, “but if I was you I’d be thinking that if I really want to make it I ain’t going to do it with them.”
A long pause.
“How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-three.”
“You’re young. But like my brother used to say, that bus to Broadway ain’t gonna wait forever. Anyway, you know where to reach me. In the meantime, take your money. And my thanks. You earned it.”
Larrieu took the cash and slowly walked back to the ballroom.
Together on stage the boys were finishing packing up their equipment. When asked how it went with the ballroom manager, Larrieu gave a short nod.
“We’re good to go.”
“Okay, boss, but what did he say about us?” Johnny Fischer asked.
Everyone stopped what they were doing.
“He said…he said we were the tightest band he’d heard in a long time.”
Smiles all around.
The Silver Dome Ballroom was decked out once again for the holiday season in 1938 when Wayne King and his Orchestra blew into town. Two touring buses carrying eighteen musicians and a support crew of five men were welcomed with almost royal fanfare for their first-ever appearance here - a two-night booking. A new manager was there to greet every band member as they filed out of the bus on a cold afternoon.
The musicians were all business as they walked toward the entrance to the grand hall. For them it was another town, another show. Nothing more. All except Harley Larrieu. For him this stop was anything but routine. He shook the manager’s hand and walked on by without saying a word.
-end-
